


expectancy theory

by CuddleFuddle



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Carlos is a Good Boyfriend, Cecil Is a Good Boyfriend, Cecil is Human, Cecil probably has an anxiety disorder, Communication, First Time, M/M, POCecil, They're both dorks tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-14 00:14:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1245562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuddleFuddle/pseuds/CuddleFuddle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecil gets nervous about sex with Carlos; Carlos is here to save the day (with rigorous scientific methodology and Good Boyfriend Skills(TM), of course).</p>
            </blockquote>





	expectancy theory

**Author's Note:**

> my bb [braunholdt](http://braunholdt.tumblr.com) beta'd this, can we all give her a round of applause for being amazing? because she is.

It takes Carlos almost a month of dating to work up the courage to invite Cecil inside (for a cup of coffee because “for sex” is too blunt for Carlos), but once he does, Cecil beams so brightly that Carlos thinks it well worth the anxiety.

He intends to be polite, to show Cecil around his unimpressive apartment – located above his lab, less out of conveniences and more out of necessity – before engaging in any kind of more physical activity, but Cecil beats him to it, pressing up against Carlos with a kind of urgency that Carlos hadn’t thought he could possess.

“Cecil,” Carlos starts, breathless. He means to tell Cecil that _against the wall_ isn’t necessarily the best place for this, but then Cecil’s lips find the sensitive spot just under Carlos’ jaw line, and for a brief and dizzying moment, all rational thought is gone.

“Carlos,” Cecil returns instead, and his voice permeates through Carlos’ skin, jostling his marrow and curling around his organs. (Possibly literally; with Night Vale, Carlos can hardly be sure. He finds he doesn’t mind as much as he ought to.)

Somehow Carlos’ hand comes to rest on Cecil’s hip, fingers curling in the belt loops of his decidedly normal jeans. Carlos has the distinct feeling that Cecil is trying to dress down for him, and he likes it, likes the way that Cecil looks in a button down shirt and dark jeans. Likes it very much, in fact, enough to tugs Cecil closer for it. Cecil gasps a little _oh_ against Carlos’ neck. His hands flutter to rest on Carlos’ ribs, and Carlos sucks in a breath just to feel them there, warm as a brand and steady through the exhale of his lungs.

“Cecil,” Carlos tries again, surprised by the raspy tone of his voice. Cecil stills, breath puffing on Carlos’ neck.

“Did you want to,” he half asks, dragging his fingertips in slow circles across the tops of Cecil’s thighs and Cecil thrums against him.

“Did you know,” Cecil says, slightly breathless, “This weekend marks the beginning of Night Vale’s first annual golf tournament? Mayor Pamela Winchell is considered the favourite for the cup – who would’ve thought our very own mayor would be such an excellent golfer? Here’s hoping she shows those Desert Bluffs a thing or two about—”

Cecil stops himself with a hand called over his mouth. It would be comical, if he didn’t look so mortified.

Carefully, Carlos disentangles himself from Cecil as best he can. Cecil watches him like he’s afraid Carlos will be angry with him, which has Carlos’ stomach lurching with something akin to possessiveness.

He’s not angry. He’s not even really disappointed, just concerned. The last thing he wants to do is pressure Cecil into anything.

“I know,” Carlos says finally, slowly. “I heard that the Old Woman Josie signed the Erikas up. Big scandal. Angels, you know.” He doesn’t mention that Cecil had given the exact same speech on the radio earlier today. Instead, he interlaces his fingers with Cecil’s free hand, trying to ignore the way Cecil sags with relief. Whether it’s because Carlos has helped to take the situation in a decidedly non-sexual direction or because Cecil really did want him to know about the golf tournament is up in the air, but Carlos hopes, with a ferocity that alarms him, that it’s the latter.

“Neat,” Cecil says finally, letting his hand drop from his mouth.

“Neat,” Carlos echoes. “Did you still want that cup of coffee?”

*

Over the next month and a half, Cecil interrupts twice to dissuade Carlos of mountains continued existence and once to warn him of the perils of bird-watching, and Carlos is beginning to form a hypothesis.

It doesn’t appear to be an aversion to sex; after the first night, Carlos had wanted to stop inviting Cecil in – not because of his rejection, but because he didn’t want to seem pushy. Cecil had looked so forlorn that first night though, asking plaintively, _is this goodnight?_ and Carlos had ended up rescinding that decision almost immediately.

He doesn’t initiate anything either; it’s all Cecil. But any time that Carlos opens his mouth to ask Cecil what it is exactly that he wants, Cecil panics and starts talking radio, leaving Carlos achingly confused.

“You know, we don’t have to do this,” Carlos had said one night, pausing mid-sentence to gesture at the two of them, tangled in each other’s laps on Carlos’ couch, “if you don’t want to. We can just… do something else.”

He’d wanted to suggest cuddling, he really had, but Cecil was looking so alarmed that Carlos had lost his train of thought. Cecil had that effect on him with a disturbing amount of consistency.

“Do you not want to?” Cecil had blurted, and he’d looked for all the world like a kicked puppy.

“I only want to if you want to,” Carlos had said firmly, and Cecil had just blinked, looking half hopeful, and that had been that.

It’s not that Cecil is asexual, and it also isn’t likely to be a Night Vale thing, because Cecil hasn’t tried to explain it, and Cecil _loves_ explaining Night Vale to Carlos. It’s almost definitely some form of nervousness, possibly born from trauma, but, well, Carlos is a scientist. Self-reliant is the first thing he is; inquisitive is the second, and dedicated to the scientific method is the third.

“Cecil,” he says calmly for the fourth time in his car, “would you like to come inside?”

“That would be nice,” Cecil says. He wears the same look he wears every time Carlos asks, a look that Carlos has tentatively qualified as ‘nervous anticipation’.

It doesn’t suit him. Truthfully, Carlos isn’t fully sure of what to do about it either; he’s formed a hypothesis, of course, but that’s all it is. And if Carlos is honest with himself, he’s nervous too.

He takes a steadying breath as he unlocks the door to the lab. Cecil, to his credit, has stopped being as enthralled by Carlos’ work space. His interest was endearing, but Cecil had a habit of inviting chaos which had made showing him around an exercise in both patience and, on one horrifying occasion, flexibility.

“I have a hypothesis,” Carlos says as soon as they’re up the stairs. “It’s about you.”

“Me?”

“Yes,” Carlos says, and Cecil brightens as if Carlos has just paid him the highest of compliments.

“You get nervous,” Carlos says, watching Cecil carefully for any reaction; Cecil blinks and says nothing, so Carlos barrels on.

“You get nervous about sex. At first I thought it was because you didn’t want to have it – which would be fine – but the past three times you’ve been here, you’ve initiated all the sexual contact.

So then I thought, well, maybe it’s a Night Vale thing, like maybe there was some kind of ritual I had to observe, but you would’ve said something by now, and you haven’t. So it’s not likely to be that either.”

Cecil’s looking at Carlos with a mixture of relief and trepidation. Carlos wants to _fix_ it like he can fix mechanical things, take it apart and rearrange it like he does to clocks and car engines. Cecil is neither a clock nor a car engine though, nor is he anything other than what he is now – biological and flawed and beautiful.

“That leaves me with two possible hypotheses, each equally likely.” That part is a bit of a lie; Carlos has two hypotheses, one of which is highly improbable, but he has to ask.

“The first is that you aren’t entirely human—”

“Well,” Cecil interrupts. “What even _is_ human, anyways? What does it mean? Two eyes? Two arms, two legs, a set of internal organs that function similarly to everyone else’s? Because I have _those_ , yes, but I—”

“It would be okay, you know,” Carlos says, and it’s the hardest thing about this whole spiel, and he’d practiced this in front of the mirror for an hour last night. “If you weren’t.”

Cecil pauses like he has to consider that, bites his lip like he has to think about whether or not he has human-standard limbs and appendages, and then nods, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“I am.”

“Which leads me to the second hypothesis. You get nervous because you don’t know what I’m asking for and because you don’t know what I expect.”

For a moment they stand facing each other, still in the foyer of Carlos’ apartment. Carlos has his hands tucked in the pockets of his lab coat; Cecil is resting his chin on one hand, fingers curling around his lips, looking thoughtful.

“If,” he says then stops. He’s not looking at Carlos as he says this, his face flushed a delicate red. “If… if you were right, what would you do?”

“Narrate,” Carlos says without hesitation, and Cecil’s gaze snaps to him immediately.

“Narrate everything. Tell you exactly what it is that I’m going to do. And you would be able to tell me to stop at any time.”

“Carlos,” Cecil says a bit breathlessly. “What would you to do me now?”

Carlos had been expecting this – hoping for it, actually, but it still makes his stomach twist with anxiety. He’s never done this anything like this before, and Cecil is looking at him so expectantly, so adoringly…

“First,” Carlos starts, hoping he doesn’t sound as foolish as he feels, “I would ask you to come to the bedroom with me.” A pause, a breath, and then Carlos takes a hand from his pocket and extends it.

“Cecil, would you come with me to the bedroom?”

Cecil shivers once, a full body affair, and then nods, smiling.

“I would love to,” he says, grasping Carlos’ hand.

*

Cecil kisses first, against the wall of Carlos’ bedroom, hands fisted in Carlos’ lab coat.

“You’re amazing,” Carlos tells him, in case Cecil needs to hear it. His hands are on Cecil’s hips, holding him steady as Cecil leans forward to slant his mouth over Carlos’ neck.

“Nowhere near as amazing as you,” Cecil mumbles, the words wet and sticky in the fabric of Carlos’ flannel. Beneath him, Cecil is trembling, but he makes no attempt to move. Nor does he start talking again, which Carlos counts as a success.

Not that he normally would; he’s always liked Cecil’s voice, finds it to be magnetizing, drawing him in and providing comfort when Carlos needs it most. But now the lack of it signifies something better; that Carlos is comforting _him_ , that his nervousness isn’t hindering him, and Carlos likes that.

“Lie down,” Carlos rasps, and Cecil jerks like he’s been burned. His eyes are wide, but he listens without complaint, curling into himself on Carlos’ duvet. It’s dizzying, to have Cecil look up at him like this, vulnerable and quiet with love in his eyes. Carlos knows, beyond reason or fact, that it doesn’t matter how awkward he feels or how stilted he sounds – Cecil is drinking this up like rain over the desert sands, eyes dark and hair mussed, lips parted and cheeks flushed.

Carlos loves him too, probably, and that terrifies him into action, shrugging out his lab coat first, flannel second, fingertips curling under the hem of his T-shirt, sliding it up and over, letting is come to a rest in a heap on the floor.

Cecil’s propped himself up on his elbows, glasses halfway down his nose. He’s watching Carlos with such rapt attention that it makes his hands shake over his belt, suddenly self-conscious as he steps out of his jeans.

“You too, Cecil,” Carlos tells him, staring pointedly at his headboard and trying to will away the flush creeping up his neck. He knows exactly where Cecil is looking, a knowledge that both flatters and embarrasses him.

He doesn’t want to stare as Cecil strips – that seems somehow impolite – but he can’t help himself. Cecil is thin and lanky under his shirt and there are a handful of scars curling over his ribs, a startling white against the brown of his skin. Carlos longs to touch them, trace them with his tongue and his hands, burn them into his memory. Instead he watches as Cecil’s hands (also shaking) fumble with the buttons on his jeans, looking up at Carlos as if for approval.

“Do you want,” Carlos starts, at the exact same time that Cecil says, “What,” and they both stop and blink at each other. Cecil breaks it first, flopping back down onto the mattress with a smile and an exaggerated sigh.

“You first,” Carlos tells him, sitting on the edge of the bed, a hand on Cecil’s still-clothed knee. This communication is more for Cecil than for himself, after all.

“What are you going to do when I’m naked?” Cecil asks, face red as he stares at the ceiling.

“I—blowjob?”

It comes out a little choked, but _god_ , Carlos wants to taste him more than he’s wanted anything else before, and judging by the appreciative noise Cecil makes in the back of his throat, Cecil has no immediate objections.

“If there’s a problem you tell me. Okay?”

“I will,” Cecil promises, sucking in a breath. “What about you?”

That question takes Carlos by surprise, mostly because he hadn’t considered it beyond jacking off after Cecil either fell asleep or left. He doesn’t want to say that – isn’t sure if he _can_ say that, really – but Cecil’s craning his neck to look at him, clearly expecting an answer.

“I wasn’t,” Carlos stammers, staring intently at Cecil’s knee. “I mean, whatever you want to do even, even if it’s nothing. Nothing is fine.”

“I don’t want to do nothing,” Cecil says almost immediately, and Carlos flushes.

“Okay, well. Well. Whatever you want is fine.”

“Okay,” Cecil agrees, settling back down.

“Do you want me to take these off?” Carlos asks, patting Cecil’s knee, and Cecil nods, pressing his face into the pillow.

It isn’t easy, not with Cecil still lying down, but Carlos manages, and then it’s the both of them in only their boxers and their glasses, Carlos slanting his body against Cecil’s, marveling in the way Cecil gasps when their groins touch. They’re both hard in their underwear, Carlos wants to lose himself in this closeness, to rut against Cecil with all the desperation that he’s feeling. But he promised Cecil a blowjob, and a blowjob is what he’s going to get. There will be other times.

“Don’t be shy,” Carlos whispers with a confidence he doesn’t feel as he plucks Cecil’s glasses from his face. Cecil’s eyes flutter shut and he exhales softly when Carlos runs the pad of his thumb across Cecil’s brow. His skin is warm and soft there, unmarred by wrinkles and Carlos feels a brief twinge of jealousy. Cecil’s close to him in age but he hardly looks it and Carlos almost wants to ask – for scientific curiosity, naturally – if it’s a Night Vale thing or if Cecil just has extraordinarily good genes.

He doesn’t. Instead he presses a kiss to Cecil’s forehead, then one to the bridge of his nose, his jawline, the spot behind his ear, free hand brushing Cecil’s hair out of his eyes.

“I want to hear you and see you – that’s why we’re doing this, right?”

“Right,” Cecil agrees, eyes still closed, and Carlos rewards him with a quick kiss to the lips.

“You’re doing well,” Carlos tells him, placing first Cecil’s glasses onto the nightstand, followed by his own.

“I’m going to take these off now, okay?” Carlos punctuates this with a tug at the bottom of Cecil’s boxers, and Cecil swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Okay.”

He does it in one quick motion before he can get nervous about it, and then Cecil is exposed, boxers pooled around his knees, and Carlos has to remind himself how to breathe.

Cecil is mostly hard already, cock flushed against his stomach, tip shining with what Carlos can only presume is precome. Carlos rests his hands on Cecil’s thighs, gently spreading them, shifting so that his face is hovering over Cecil. He can smell him, this close, musk and arousal and lingering soap.

“I’m going to start now,” Carlos manages.

“Yeah,” Cecil says back, thinly, quietly. “Yeah.”

It’s not his intention to tease, but he can’t help the urge to rub his face against Cecil’s dick, enjoying the feel of it, hard and hot and heavy against his cheek. Cecil makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a whimper. Carlos can faintly taste Cecil’s precome, a light salty counterpoint to the headiness of his skin.

“You taste good,” Carlos tells him, and before Cecil can say anything, Carlos takes him into his mouth.

He’s liked the taste and weight and feel of dick ever since he realized he shouldn’t, and every moment of practice with faceless strangers from nameless bars has been leading him to this point, here, now, with Cecil keening, a hand fisting into the sheets as he trembles with need. He’ll take whatever Carlos offers him, gratefully and without any selfishness, happy to be here, now, too. That’s all Carlos could ever have hoped for.

Cecil makes a noise of dissent when Carlos slides his cock out of his mouth, which changes to a mewl when Carlos laps at his balls, rolling them with his tongue. And when he drops down further, practically burying his face in Cecil’s lap, tongue circling his asshole, Cecil lifts his hips to accommodate him, a needy cry of _Carlos_ that has Carlos’ dick throbbing.

“I want to finger you while I suck you off, can I do that Cecil, _please_ ,” and Cecil puts a hand on Carlos’ shoulder and tells him, _yes_ , and Carlos nearly gives himself whiplash trying to sit up so he can wet his fingers with spit. He presses the first against Cecil’s ass, trailing up and down the cleft before he pushes in, gently, slowly, while Cecil alternates between breathy pants and soft moans.

When he’s got his finger in past the first knuckle, Carlos turns his attention back to Cecil’s dick, licking messily at his balls before taking the head into his mouth again. It’s perhaps one of the sloppiest blowjobs Carlos has ever given, precome and drool smearing across his mouth, and Carlos can’t remember a time when he has been so desperate for this, not since he was a teenager at least.

Cecil hooks his ankles around Carlos’ back, rests his free hand in Carlos’ hair, tugging when Carlos does something right. It doesn’t even occur to Carlos that he should take his mouth off of Cecil when he warns him, and the feel of him spurting hotly in Carlos’ mouth is almost enough to push him past the edge.

He swallows and lets Cecil slide out of his mouth, scrambling to get out from underneath, shoving a hand down his boxers. He sighs when he gets a hand around his cock, struggling out of his underwear. Carlos knows he should be embarrassed, jacking off over his blissed out boyfriend, but he’s so, _so_ close, if he could just—

“Carlos,” Cecil tells him, blinking and sitting up. “Let me.”

He puts his hand over Carlos’, fingertips soft against Carlos’ knuckles, and Carlos groans, lets his hand fall away.

Cecil is a little too gentle, a little too slow, but the look on his face is one of pure reverence and it’s almost too much. Cecil’s eyes are dark and wide and shining, the back of his hair sticking up at an angle from where he’d laid on it wrong, and Carlos has to close his eyes against it, tipping his head back and thrusting shallowly into Cecil’s hand. Cecil scooches forward until their knees are touching, hums agreeably when Carlos makes an undignified whine, and kisses Carlos’ exposed jugular wetly.

“Cecil, I,” Carlos starts, but Cecil interrupts him with a quiet _go for it_ , which ought to make Carlos laugh given the circumstances but he can’t, he really can’t, especially with Cecil not taking his hand away, stroking Carlos through it as he finally comes, harder than he has in years, biting his lip against any embarrassing noises. Distantly, he thinks he hears Cecil say _neat!_ which has him snorting out a laugh against his will.

“Bathroom’s first door on the left,” Carlos offers as Cecil gathers himself, staring wondrously at the mess on his hand.

“Right,” Cecil says, getting up gingerly so as not to mess up the bed sheets. He tugs his underwear up to settle on his hips with a crooked finger, and something about that action – innocent and normal and, god help him, cute, has a pit of warmth spreading through Carlos’ stomach. He can’t help but smile at Cecil’s back as he saunters out of his room, looking for all the world the proverbial cat with the canary, still looking at his hand.

Carlos finds his own underwear while Cecil is out, and by the time he’s returned Carlos has halfway hidden himself under the covers. Cecil stops, hovering by the edge of the bed, and this time Carlos lets himself smile, warm and soft, patting the space next to him.

“I was nervous too,” he says by way of explanation and Cecil melts at the admission, sliding under the covers and burying his face into Carlos’ collarbone. His eyelashes tickle against Carlos’ skin, and their arms bump awkwardly in places, but Cecil is warm, pressed against Carlos’ chest like this, and Carlos feels more content than he has in ages.

“Will you need me to do that often?” Carlos finally asks into the space between his mouth and Cecil’s hair.

“I don’t know,” Cecil says into Carlos’ neck. “I don’t think so? I feel—I feel less now,” he decides upon, shifting to kiss Cecil’s jaw.

“Okay,” Carlos says, a bit relieved. It had been a lot of talking, which Carlos is slightly bad at, and a lot of projecting confidence, which Carlos _is_ good at when it doesn’t involve blowjobs and other sexual acts. He wouldn’t have minded though, not really, because he’s been dating Cecil long enough now to know that whatever the nervousness is, it isn’t because Cecil is idolizing him. At least, not any more than Carlos would expect in a normal relationship. It had been one of the first things they’d talked about, long before Carlos had invited him in, because he likes Cecil ( _loves_ , a part of his brain supplies) but he can’t – he won’t – build a relationship with someone who places him on a pedestal.

“I’m not perfect,” he’d told Cecil firmly. “Neither are you. That’s what I like about you.”

“Something becomes perfect when you learn to accept it for what it is,” Cecil quoted, looking starry-eyed, and Carlos had nodded along because, close enough, and kissed him.

He’s almost asleep when Cecil stirs against him again, caught in that warm and hazy place between wakefulness and rest, thinking of Cecil with literal stars in his eyes. It takes him a solid three seconds to parse what Cecil is saying and his own embarrassed reaction.

“Yeah,” he says, voice soft. “Me too.”


End file.
